Invasive Species (12 page)

ONE MAN CAME
through the door. She had expected two at least.

They'd underestimated her, as people always did. Thought she was merely a girl, and therefore easily handled.

And thank the gods they had, because one man was almost more than enough. She'd been so consumed with her plans that she'd lost some of her instincts, some of her alertness.

The knock on the schoolhouse door came when she expected it. But as soon as she unlocked the door, it swung open so violently that she didn't get out of the way in time. Next thing she knew, she was on her knees on the floor, dazed, looking up at the man who came striding in.

He was a brute, a huge white man with a scowling face and thick legs and bare arms like slabs. Quick on his feet, though, grabbing the front of her blouse and yanking her up, his left hand already under the shirt and against her bare skin.

When she tried to knee him in the groin, he turned his hips just far enough to take the blow on his thigh. If it hurt him, he showed no sign.

He wasn't reaching for her body. She heard the latch of her money belt click. A moment later, he'd tossed her across the room as effortlessly as she might have tossed a cushion.

Waking up finally, she protected her head when she crashed onto the stone floor near the cot. Still, she lay there, breathless, for long seconds while he inspected what was inside the belt's zippered compartment.

When she struggled to her feet, he pointed at her, a casual warning to stay still. He didn't seem to be paying much attention to her, but she knew how quickly he would respond if she went for him.

Not that it mattered. She barely was able to get enough air into her lungs to say, “My passport—”

“Shut up,” he said.

He was holding a big wad of bills in one thick hand. Almost all her money.

“Here's what happens,” he went on. His accent was American. Not all of them had gone home.

“I'll take this,” he said. “You want the passport, you find another thousand. Give it to my boss, and you can have your passport.”

“But how—”

He shrugged. His face rearranged itself into something that appeared to be a grin. “Who cares? Fuck for it, kill for it, whatever you need to do. But the price is another thousand. You don't have a choice.”

Eyes still on her face, he jammed the bills into his pocket, tossed the belt onto the floor. Then his gaze dropped a little and he focused on something.

“That, too,” he said.

For an instant Mariama thought again that he meant her body. Then she realized it was her silver necklace, her locket, that had captured his attention.

“Give,” he said, holding out a beefy palm.

Mariama shook her head.

He wasn't much for explaining himself or asking twice. She was learning that. He came across the room at her, again much faster than she'd anticipated, his hand grabbing for the chain, clearly not caring if he yanked her head off with it.

He was fast, but this time she was faster. His hand had not yet reached her neck when she brought up a chunk of rock that had come from the crumbling wall outside. One of several she'd brought in and hidden.

She swung her arm in a short arc and banged the stone against his temple. That stopped him in his tracks, but he didn't go down. Instead, his face took on a thoughtful expression, his eyes suddenly vague. She could feel the tips of the fingers on his outstretched right hand brushing her neck and the links of the silver chain.

She hit him again, harder, and this time he did fall. Onto his knees, at first, and then all the way, toppling onto his side. His eyes closed.

She studied him for a few moments, waiting to see if he would awake and leap at her, whether he might be pretending. But he didn't seem like the kind to engage in subterfuge. He was unconscious.

There was already a huge purple bruise on his swollen forehead, and some blood seeped out of the abrasions where the rough stone had broken the skin. Nothing gushing, though. Good.

Kneeling over him, she searched his pockets. She took back the money he'd stolen from her, but found nothing else. No wallet, no identification, no money of his own.

There was one thing: a knife with a spring-driven folding blade. Mariama tested it a couple of times, pushing the button that released the blade and folding it back in again. Then she slipped it into her pocket.

When she was done, she walked over to the door, which was still open, and looked out. Heard no one. Light pollution from Panama City brightened the western sky, and a half-moon and smeary stars cast some light on the falling-down buildings and patchy brush of the old subdivision. Somewhere out in the darkness, a dog or coyote yapped.

His car was parked out front. She knew the keys must be in it. And why not? He'd assumed that he would be the only one going in, the only one coming out.

Returning to the fallen man, she took both his wrists in her hands, pulled his arms over his head, and dragged him to the door. He snorted and once his right foot kicked, setting her heart racing, but he didn't awake.

It was hard work. She was dripping with sweat well before they reached the spot she'd chosen. Behind a pile of rubble a hundred feet from the school, a spot that no one would likely ever visit, but for the dogs and carrion birds and insects.

When she had him lying there, illuminated only by the moonlight, she paused to catch her breath. Then she squatted beside him and reached out with both hands. One pinched his nose shut while the other covered his mouth.

He fought back. Or, rather, his body did, flailing its arms and kicking its legs. But the organizing principle, the conscious mind that would have resisted her in some specific way, that would have gone for her eyes or her throat in return . . . that was missing.

All that was left was the organism's inherent desire to live. And that wasn't enough.

Soon his movements grew weaker, more sporadic. Then they ceased entirely. When she was sure, she stood one last time, stretched her weary arms, turned away, and walked over to his car.

In the past, she might have spared his life. Tied him up and later, when she was safe, told someone where he was.

But they were living in a new world, one that permitted no unnecessary risks.

*   *   *

SHE HELD THE
edge of the blade against Mr. Bannerjee's neck. His mouth opened and some saliva dropped out of it and onto his desk.

She knew she must have looked like a creature from a nightmare to him: sweaty, disheveled, bloodthirsty, fierce. He must have guessed what had happened to the man he'd sent for her.

“Where is it?” she asked him.

A few minutes later, she was holding a green Panamanian passport issued to Maimouna Wade, complete with her photo and a U.S. tourist visa. After looking it over, she put it in her belt and squatted beside Mr. Bannerjee, who was again sitting slumped behind his desk.

“You're very lucky,” she told him. “I'm letting you live. But if you tell a single person about any of this, I
will
send someone to correct that error.”

He looked at her but said nothing.

“Do you understand?” she said.

He nodded. His mouth and chin were quivering.

She wasn't satisfied, but it was as much as she could expect. She couldn't afford to leave this man's body behind where it might be found.

Some chances you had to take.

*   *   *

THE FLIGHT TO
New York City was uneventful. Not crowded, so Mariama had a two-seat row to herself. She'd brought a book to read, just like the other tourists (though most of them spent their time staring at their laptop computers), but she looked out the window for much of the flight, her mind far away.

She still had so much planning to do.

The plane landed on time. The passengers disembarked and headed to Immigration. In her modest skirt and flowered cotton blouse, Mariama looked like any other West African woman coming to the world's melting pot city.

She waited on the line, and soon enough it was her turn. Somewhere deep inside she could feel a flutter of nerves, but on the surface she appeared completely calm. Compared to everything she'd been through, this was easy.

The young man in the Immigration booth looked tired. He glanced at Mariama's face, then at the passport. Typed something into his computer. While he was waiting, he asked her if she was there on business or pleasure.

“I'm visiting my family,” she said.

“So some of both, eh?” he said.

Mariama smiled. She wondered how often he made that joke.

He stamped her passport and handed it back to her. “Enjoy your visit.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Done. All she had was a carry-on bag, so she wouldn't even have to wait for a suitcase to come trundling out on the baggage loop. Nothing left to do but to disappear into New York City, get in touch with the people whose apartment she was going to share, and—at last—go see Trey Gilliard.

*   *   *

SHE WAS STILL
a few feet from the door labeled
Ground Transportation
when she felt the tap on her shoulder. “Excuse me, ma'am.”

Her first instinct was to run, but she knew that would be disastrous.

Instead she turned to see two men in uniforms with black pants and bright blue shirts. They were big, strong, polite. In the way of security officials everywhere, they stood a little too close to her.

On their blue shoulders were labels saying
TSA
.
Mariama knew what that stood for: Transportation Security Administration.

“Yes?” she said.

“Come with us, ma'am, please,” said the one who had spoken first.

And the other said, “We have a few questions to ask you.”

Mariama went with them. What choice did she have?

*   *   *

ALL THIS TIME,
with all the dangers she'd faced, she had never truly believed that her part in the dance would end so soon.

“‘NATIVE SUPERSTITIONS RUN WILD
in this fever-ridden black heart of the Dark Continent, where God has never smiled and people worship the spirits of the teeming forest whose grasping tendrils they never escape.'”

“Is that purple prose getting all over your fingers?” Jack asked.

Sheila said, “Go on.”

By now, Trey had become sure he'd never find what he was looking for in the old travel memoirs. So sure that when he did find it, in a book called
Beasts, Bugs, and Bedouins: A Journey through the Slavelands
, he turned the page before what he'd read filtered through to his conscious mind.

Then it got his full attention.

“‘The native witch doctors tell tales of pythons large enough to eat a young hippopotamus—or a large man—whole, then retiring to digest their meal for two full years before stalking a new victim,'” he read out loud. “‘Of strange doglike creatures, seen only in the shadows, that howl outside a village the night before the wretched victim of a mystical curse perishes. And of a winged demon that, in the guise of a wasp, preys on monkeys, and even on the most unfortunate of men.'”

“Hey,” Jack said.

Sheila was standing very still and straight in her spot by the window. “Keep reading,” she said.

“‘Once they find you,'” Trey went on, “‘your life is forfeit. There is no surcease, no restitution, no cure. Neither escape: These demons act in unearthly concert, as with a single intent. There is only the summoning, the long dreaming days, the last terrifying madness, confronted only at your own mortal peril, and then the inevitability of death.'”

He stopped reading. Very quietly, almost under her breath, Sheila said, “Long dreaming days.”

“The last terrifying madness.” Jack grunted. “Anything else?”

Trey shook his head. “No, that's it.”

“I guess it would've been too much to expect an illustration.” Jack turned his palms up. “I don't know. It all sounds like a Victorian flight of fancy.” He grimaced. “I mean, in the same passage we have hippo-eating snakes and mystical doglike creatures that foretell your death with a woof.”

No one spoke for a while. Then Trey stirred. “No,” he said. “I don't think so. If I hadn't seen the thieves myself, I'd agree it was myth, legend. But the thieves do exist, so we can't assume there's no truth at the heart of this description.”

Jack was still frowning. “Then tell me: What are ‘dreaming days'?”

“Something we haven't seen yet.”

“That's helpful.” Jack leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Okay, let's go through this methodically. The madness is last—”

“The inevitability of death is last,” Sheila said.

“Well, besides that. But ‘summoning' comes before. What's that?”

Trey said, “I wonder . . .”

“Silent wondering not allowed,” Jack said. “Spill.”

Trey was remembering. The colony. The thief hovering in front of his face, deciding.

Even here, even after all this time, the memory made his skin feel cold.

“At the colony,” he said. “That monkey I saw.”

Seeing again the colobus's terror, its white-rimmed eyes and desperate cries as it staggered into the clearing.

“You think it was going . . . against its will,” Sheila said. “Not that it was just disoriented?”

Trey said, “Yes.”

“But how? Who was summoning it, and how?”

Jack brought his feet back down to the floor. “Well, I could come up with a theory about
that
.” He seemed suddenly more cheerful. “Fungus,” he said.

Sheila said, “What?”

“Fungus,” Jack said again. “Specifically,
Ophiocordyceps
.”

Trey was nodding. “Yes, that could be it.”

Sheila looked at the two of them and frowned. “Please tell me what you're agreeing about.”

“Various species of
Ophiocordyceps
fungi are found in tropical forests all around the world,” Jack said. “They have a diabolical way of dispersing themselves, colonizing new territories.”

He was enjoying himself. “It all starts when an ant, a grasshopper, or another bug breathes in some of the fungus's spores. The spores lodge in the bug's lungs and the fungus starts to grow, to spread through the body. At the same time, it releases chemicals that affect the insect's brain. Basically, it turns its victim into a zombie.”

Sheila said, “You're making this up.”

Jack grinned. “Nope. The bug's behavior suddenly changes. It finds a bush and climbs to the top, a place it would never normally go. An ant that has never left the ground, for example, might climb six or eight feet up. Then, with its last strength, it grabs hold of a branch with its strong mandibles. And dies.”

Sheila was staring at him. “Why on earth does it do that?”

“So when the fungus sprouts through the dead ant's eyes, mouth, and other openings, it can release its spores out into the breeze, to drift down and be breathed in by another ant, or a hundred, or a whole colony.”

They waited while she absorbed this. Then Trey said, “In some forests, you can find them pretty easily. The remains, I mean. These white fungus stalks and sprouts catch your eye—they gleam among the green leaves—and there, clinging to the bush, is something that was once an insect.”

“Oh, did I mention?” Jack was grinning at Sheila's expression. “The fungus liquefies the host's innards and converts them to sugars. Food!”

Again they waited. After a while Sheila said, “Okay. I have a few questions.”

Her voice crisp, like she was taking a patient's history.

“Are mammals ever infected by these fungus spores?” she asked.

Jack looked a little less happy and said, “Not that anyone's found yet, no.”

She nodded. “What you described to me is a pretty straightforward parasite-host relationship. But do these fungi ever work with other species to their mutual benefit? Are the relationships ever symbiotic?”

Jack scowled.

“And if the thief-fungus relationship is symbiotic, the fungus has to get something out of the deal. Unless the infected monkey climbs to a treetop before it dies.” She looked at Trey. “Does that seem likely to you?”

Silence. Then Jack, looking a little disconsolate, shook his shoulders. “Okay,” he said. “As a theory, it needs work.”

“We don't have enough of the pieces yet.” Sheila paused, the corners of her mouth turning down. “And if something
was
‘summoning' the monkey Trey saw, yours is a much better theory than I could have come up with.”

For a moment her eyes went out of focus. She pointed at the old book Trey was still holding. “If she'd lived, would my mother have been summoned as well?”

Neither Trey nor Jack spoke. It didn't matter. Sheila went on without waiting for an answer.

“And was Mom going to experience the dreaming days?” she said. “The madness? Was her death inevitable?”

Her voice shook a little on the last sentence. Then it firmed.

“I
hate
not having the answers,” she said.

*   *   *

THE PHONE RANG
about an hour later, a loud, clattery sound in the silence. Jack answered on the third ring and said, “Yeah?”

And then, “Yeah.”

And then, straightening, his face lighting up, “Yeah?”

He listened for another second, then said, “Hang on. Let me put you on speaker. There are people here who'll want to hear this.”

He pushed a button. The speakerphone kicked in just in time for Trey to hear a voice say, “—Gilliard there?”

“Yes, I'm here,” Trey said.

“Gilliard! Hey. Remember me?”

A familiar British accent, nasal voice. Trey could see the storklike frame, the long, indolent face, the blue eyes like chips of glass.

“Sure,” he said. “How you doing, Ranny?”

Randolph Whitson, one of the countless field biologists whose paths had crossed Trey's over the years.

“You still at La Tamandua?” Trey asked.

“Always. That's why I'm calling.”

La Tamandua Tropical Research Station, set amid the cloud forests below the peak of Monte Blanco in Costa Rica. Trey remembered it well from his single visit a decade earlier. The dense, wet forest had been filled with jewel-like poison dart frogs, iridescent birds, and foliage of more shades of green than even Trey had ever seen before.

Ranny, a mammalogist associated with the University of London, had built the research station, beam by hardwood beam, and since then he'd rarely left. His specialty was bats, but by now he knew everything that lived in those forests.

“Finally got a phone in there?” Trey asked.

The crowing laugh came down the line. At the beginning, Ranny hadn't allowed a radio or satellite phone to be installed on La Tamandua's premises. Word was he'd chosen the station's site, in a little valley, because cell-phone service didn't penetrate there.

“No effing way,” Ranny said. “I'm calling from Rio Viejo.”

The small town an hour's drive from the station.

“And you drove all that way just to chat?” Jack asked. It was time to get to the point.

“You kidding? We were running low on beer, and anyway it's Graciela's time of the month, so she needed some shit.”

Over by the window, Sheila gave a quick blink and an unmistakable roll of the eyes.

Trey didn't bother to ask who Graciela was. With Ranny, there was always a girl. Always a different girl.

“But I figured, long as I'm here, why not call? 'Cause I think I caught one of those buggers you've been looking for.”

Jack rose onto his toes. “You just told me you'd
seen
one!”

The laugh. “Saw it and caught it. Hang on.”

Garbled noises over the line before Ranny returned. “Last time I was in here, somebody showed me that Wanted poster you sent around on the computer. Ugly bugger. Give me a bat any old day.

“But then damned if I didn't find your beast chewing through one of my mist nets maybe three mornings later.” A pause. “Most bats give up once they're tangled in the net, but not this guy. He had determination, that one.”

“And you collected it?” Jack looked like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“Yeah.” Ranny seemed to hesitate, and when he spoke again his voice had a different tone. “Yeah. Tell you the truth, I didn't want to go near it. Wanted to leave it alone, let it get away and go back to wherever it came from. But I knew you were on a kick for these guys, so I maneuvered around and squeezed it till it gave up and died.”

A sound, maybe a cough, came down the line. “You didn't mention the smell in your ad, I notice. That thing effing stinks. It's bothering Graciela. So when are you going to come pick it up?”

Jack said, “What? Send it to us.”

“Yeah?” Ranny was laughing. “Sure. No prob. I'll just stick it in a box and courier it up your way.”

Jack growled at his tone.

“Sorry, pal,” Ranny went on. “Maybe that's how it works at your museum, but not here. Here we carry out our specimens. I'm not leaving for six more weeks, and there's nobody else around.”

When no one spoke, he said, “The way this thing smells, if you don't come for it in the next two days, I'm putting it outside. And you know how long it'll last in the wet here.”

Trey was remembering how he'd felt the first time he'd encountered the thieves. He said, more quietly than he'd intended, “I'll go.”

Then, louder, “Ranny, I'll be there by tomorrow night.”

Sheila said, “Trey, no.”

At the same time, Ranny was saying, “Great. If I remember right, there's a direct flight to San José from Kennedy at around six in the morning. Drive fast, and you'll be here before nightfall.”

“I'll drive fast,” Trey said.

Ranny laughed. “My man. Bring more beer.”

He disconnected. Jack was already sitting behind his computer, clicking the mouse. After a few moments, he looked up. “Six twenty-five on LACSA. From Kennedy, like he said.”

Trey nodded, but he was looking at Sheila. “What's the problem?”

“Those things,” she said.

Jack raised his eyes from the screen. “Only one of them, and it's dead.”

“Come on, Jack,” she said, her voice suddenly harsh. “Give someone else credit for a little intelligence. We all know that where there's one, there'll be more.”

Jack stared at her. His mouth moved, and Trey was sure—certain—that he was about to say something like,
I guess it's your time of the month, too, huh, Sheila?

Trey didn't let that happen. “Both of you,” he said, “pipe down.”

Their eyes went to him. Neither of them looked happy to be interrupted, but it was Sheila who spoke. “Trey, you'll be walking into too many unknowns. I don't think it's worth the risk.”

Jack said, “As opposed to his usual M.O.? We need that specimen.”

Trey saw the wasp hovering just before his face, the others staring at him from the mouths of their burrows.

“I'll be back as soon as I can,” he said.